


without a map or compass

by orphan_account



Series: without a map or compass [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Castiel/Dean Winchester, Family, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Hunter Retirement, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Mark of Cain, Retirement, and a stupid bum living alone, dean is retired, until jesse shows up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-04 03:41:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4124380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Canon:</p><p>The world is saved, the Mark is gone, and everyone Dean knew is dead. So he settles down in a small town, becomes a mechanic, and lives alone with his grief and regret. </p><p>A year later, a certain Antichrist shows up on his doorstep battered and weary from running.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jesse's eyes followed the ivy climbing up the side of the squat little house. It hung onto the brick wall, climbing all the way to the roof. The vines were so familiar to the veins in his body, the veins that carried half-demon blood to the tips of his fingers and toes from his still-beating heart. 

The human was so fragile a thing, he thought, held together by flesh and bone and the very soul that dwells inside it. 

He brought his hand up to inspect the pale inside of his wrist, enraptured with the purple and blue rivers flowing just below his thin skin. And, in that moment, he contemplated ripping his arm open just to see what it was that was keeping him alive.

Instead, he walked up to the building and knocked heavily on the door.

.

Who is banging on that godawful door?

For the first time in a year, Dean was jolted out of sleep not by the dark remorse and loneliness he felt that manifested themselves into his dreams, but by the sound of a person knocking on his door.

Huh, that was new.

He blinked the last few dregs of sleep away, and groaned long and deep.

The person knocked again, impatiently.

Dean rubbed fireworks into his eyes, and sat up in bed. "I'm coming, I'm coming!" he gurgled, voice uncovered from layers of dirt. He got up, already dressed, and stomped down his rickety stairs. He opened the front door, and the person he last expected was there.

Jesse Turner. The antichrist. 

Dean blinked incomprehensively, and closed his door. "Go away," he murmured as an afterthought.

"Open up!" Jesse yelled.

Dean pinched himself once, twice, three times. The pain in his arm was real; so was the frustrated teenager at the door. He sighed like a martyr, and grabbed for the doorknob.

"You're not here," he said. Pure fact.

Jesse had grown up from the little boy he was back when the apocalypse was in full swing. His hands were worn, broken callouses peeking out from his clenched fists. His pants were ripped, and the memories of blood were splattered along the bottoms. On the uncertain slope of his shoulders, he carried some unimaginable weight that hid in the shadows of his hazel eyes. To Dean, the kid looked as if simply existing was a painful burden.

Maybe it was.

Jesse scuffed his boots against the concrete porch, and shrugged. "I think I'm here," he replied, voice like the rustling of leaves in the wind.

"How did you find me, then?" Dean revised.

Jesse looked around him anxiously. "Can I come in?" he asked instead.

Dean glanced over his shoulder at nothing, and nodded. "You don't have anyone following you, right?" He sat down at the kitchen table, and invited Jesse to do the same.

"I... I don't think they know I'm even in America"

Dean closed his eyes, and frowned.

"Do they know where I am?"

"No."

"Does anyone else know where I am?"

"Only the writer guy."

Dean did a double-take, and gaped like an idiot. "Wha- you found Chuck?"

Jesse nodded. "Yeah. It's a long story."

Dean's excitement flooded out of him in a deflating rush. "O-okay. You can tell me later. But the real question of the hour is... how long do you plan to stay?"

Jesse shrugged eyes doggedly avoiding Dean's.

"D'you need a place to crash at?" Dean asked softly, as if he was confronting an injured animal. "For a while?"

"You were the only one I could go to," the kid admitted shamefully. 

Dean carefully patted his shoulder and smiled. "It's okay. I'll set you up in the spare room later. Right now, it looks like you need a nap."

As if just realizing his exhaustion, Jesse yawned. 

"The couch isn't as uncomfortable as it looks, you know."

Jesse laughed skittishly, and walked half-backwards towards it.

Dean walked behind him, and grabbed the blanket off the back. "Y'know, I've got the place warded to the nines."

"I know. I could feel it when I walked in." 

Dean couldn't help but tuck in the corners of the blanket, and walked off towards the kitchen.

.

Dale was a simple kind of man. He was private, for the most part, and had better manners than just about anybody in town. Caring. Knew not to stick his nose where it didn't belong, and when to keep his mouth shut. His mother was a good teacher, after all.

So when Dean Smith hitchhiked into town a year ago with nothing but two duffel bags and a pocket full of cash, he didn't say a word. He noticed that the man kept to himself, and didn't question it. An occasional conversation was sparked between them, but most of the time, they worked in amicable silence. He knew better than to ask too many questions.

But today, though - today was different. Dean twitched like a live wire was stuck down his pants, and nervously rubbed at his neck or scratched at the tattoo on the inside of his arm. For a man who rarely did a single thing outside of himself, this was strange behavior. Dale just couldn't ignore it.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it), Karen beat him to the punchline. "What's got your panties in a twist?" she queried in the break room when business was at its slowest.

Dean was an oil-stained deer caught in headlights. "What?" he gulped.

Chris sniggered from the other room. 

"I mean, you're hoppin' around like you're walkin' on coals!"

Dean rolled his eyes. "It's nothing, guys. Don't worry about it."

Dale shook his head. "If there's something bothering you, Dean, we'd like to help." He didn't miss the way the man let go of the breath he was holding. Dale could actually see him slip off the somber cloak he wore much of the time.

"It's, er... well, a distant relative of mine showed up on my doorstep asking for room and board."

"Really?" Karen asked. "How old? And for how long?"

"He's seventeen, I think. And he's staying long-term."

"What's he called?"

"Jesse."

Karen smiled, and slapped Dean on the back. "I'm happy for you, Deano. He'll give you something to fuss over. You've been hashing it on your own for too long, and I think this boy'll be good for you. We'll help you out."

"We?"

"Of course!" Chris yelled from the open door.

"Bring him here Friday. Dale or I or Chris will show'im around."

Dean, God bless him, looked like he was about to bolt. "But-"

"Do it, or you're fired."

Dean pouted, and groaned comically.

After he left, Karen turned to Dale. "That's the liveliest I've seen him since I've known him," she whispered conspiratorially. "Jesse'll do him some good."

Dale quietly agreed, and bumped her shoulder before getting back out on the floor. The truth of her words rang like church bells in his head, and he was filled with hope for his colleague - his friend.

.

When Dean got the pasta started, Jesse woke up.

"It's Italian," Dean supplied. "Everyone likes pasta."

Jesse massaged his temples and batted at his flyaway hair. He stood up, joints popping, and sat down at the table.

"Wanna help?"

"Not really," Jessie said. He laid his head down on the table, finger tracing the pattern of the grain.

Finishing dinner was extremely weird for the veteran hunter. The presence of another person in his house was entirely foreign to him. He was hyperaware of everything the kid did. His light breath was like a purring fan, something Dean had never owned in his life but imagined would sound like. Even the smallest of Jesse's movements caught Dean's eye. The man wasn't nervous, per say, but a lifetime of paranoia made him weary of any motion. Even that of an exhausted, vulnerable teenager.

They ate dinner in silence. It was awkward at first, but soon they found a steady rhythm of chair squeaks and silverware clicks and mouthfuls of rigatoni.

Once their plates were cleared, they didn't move from the table. Jesse licked his lips.

"Something on your mind?"

"No. Nothing," he denied.

"Uh huh." Dean didn't press the issue further. "Anyways, I set up your room while you were out. It's kinda small, unfortunately, but the bed is clean and the window isn't broken, making it the second-best room in this crappy old thing. I also called off work for tomorrow. I'll take you clothes shopping in the morning."

Jesse looked up from where he was staring at his shoes. And for the first time in a long time, he smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Dean took Jesse to a local clothing shop. The place was typically dead on weekday mornings, and that day was no exception. An old tune ached from the ancient speakers, almost unrecognizable in its vague sounds. The stunted fan on the desk did little to displace the thick air in the establishment. Posters, advertisements, and community updates were pasted to a message board. A floorboard creaked somewhere. 

It felt familiar to both of the weary boys. 

Jesse was reluctant to try on anything. He recoiled from articles Dean handed him as if a crowd of swarming locusts hung around them. At first, Dean thought it was because the kid was really goddamn picky. But he recognized the look soon enough – that exposed, raw feeling of unsureness, of not wanting to overstep any boundaries or ask for too much. He stepped around the isles like the very touch of his skin corrupted the pure. It was heartbreaking – but again, it was known to the green-eyed man.

“Hey,” Dean spoke. “Your room needs some really tough repair. If it makes you feel better, you can work off the money spent on clothes today with me cleaning. Sound good?”

Jesse’s face regained some color, and he nodded. He understood.

Dean couldn’t help but rejoice when the kid picked out a shirt to wear.

.

After lunch, the two trooped upstairs with cleaning supplies in hand, and stepped through Jesse’s door.

There was something broken about his room. Like several people had been inside it but didn’t stay for long. As if it was a passage; a place to stay, going from here to there.

A bird sang a sad song from a tree outside. The grime-covered windowpanes allowed a yellow light to leak in, casting the brown globe and bookshelf in old-world color.

The two veterans, both aged beyond description, looked each other in the eyes. They knew what this place was; they knew what it could be. A sense of beginning descended upon them like a soft rainfall. It seeped into their bones, resting there like a helpful hand. Particles in the air swayed to and fro, laying out the lines of the floor before them. Dean and Jesse nodded to one another.

“Let’s get started.”

.

Jesse worked on the windows, clearing what he could from the dirtied glass. The cuts along his fingers stung from the cleaning spray. His arms were sore from scrubbing, but it was a good pain. A nice, comforting feeling that proved how very much alive he was. It was not unwelcomed, he decided. 

Jesse remembered the hours of work he did back in Australia, and he sighed in a world-weary sort of way. It was not something he often liked to think about.

“I could feel it, you know,” he said without prompt. “When he was locked up.” 

Dean looked up from his place on the floor. “Who?” He questioned, though he looked like he already knew the answer.

“The Devil.”

“You could feel it?” Dean looked down once again.

“Yeah. My powers showed up when he first appeared on Earth, right? Well, when he went away, my abilities were drastically cut down. Seriously cut down.”

“How bad?” Dean’s voice was lowered, as if he were whispering to the floorboards.

Jesse didn’t respond.

“Well, how d’you know he isn’t dead?”

“Because I’m still alive. And likely to live for a lot longer.”

Dean shook his head, some indecipherable emotion flitting about inside his head. “I guess that’s something we’ve got in common, kid.”

Jesse didn’t reply to that, either.

.

Dean relished the opportunity to clean. Not just because he was a neat-freak, but because this was all his. His to take care of. His own personal property. And that was worth a beer or two, he thought.

He looked over to see how Jesse was doing. The kid had his shirt pulled up over his mouth and nose while dusting the antique bookshelf in the corner. He was silently content, in his own way, working hard for Dean and for himself. His brow would occasionally scrunch up in either frustration or confusion, outlining the childish features the boy still retained. He never smiled – but he looked okay.

Dean couldn’t help but grin. It was better than the desolate look Jesse had on when he first arrived.

They spent most of the afternoon like that, clearing out the room and moving Jesse’s new clothes in. 

The older man realized something. He wouldn’t say he was happy, but he wasn’t sad, either, like he regularly was. It was a ground-breaking discovery. Dean could hardly remember what true joy and bliss felt like, the fading memories of he and his brother dangling just out of reach. But now, though, he wasn’t swamped with grief or bitterness or sorrow. He felt… average.

It was nice.

.

Having someone else in the house with him was different. A good different. 

The geezer he bought the place off of was moving in with his granddaughter, and wasn’t asking for much. What really sold it, though, was that he was going to leave most of his furniture behind. Dean hadn’t exactly been to IKEA before, and he didn’t exactly want a barren house to move into, so he paid in cash and moved right in.

The damned thing suffered lots of damage from the ivy, the electricity was spotty, the plumbing poor, and the corners of the floorboards tended to pop out of place. But to him, it was stuff to occupy his time doing. He enjoyed it – it was a decent distraction.

He fantasized about owning a house when he was little – back before he was hit hard by the real world. He had the house, but the empty halls seemed to echo throughout the night, the distant creaks and shuffles of friends since passed haunted him in the dead of night.

But now he had another person to look after again. It had been too long, Dean Winchester knew. He liked it. Having the space to share it with another was good for him and Jesse. Two days with the kid, and he was already turning Dean soft.

He could get used to it.


End file.
